


Ain't Nothin' But A Hound Dog

by inabathrobe, theficisalie



Category: Cobra Starship, Fall Out Boy, My Chemical Romance
Genre: F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-10
Updated: 2012-03-10
Packaged: 2017-11-01 18:39:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,548
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/360006
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inabathrobe/pseuds/inabathrobe, https://archiveofourown.org/users/theficisalie/pseuds/theficisalie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Gerard just wanted to show Frank a good time. He's pretty sure he did, but he really wishes they could remember it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ain't Nothin' But A Hound Dog

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Jenepod](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jenepod/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Untitled Open Scene](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/7237) by Jenepod. 



> inabathrobe/theficisalie/metaphors = OT3. Also, this started out as Gerard is the world's worst wingman and turned into The Hangover. Um. We promise we are both just as bad as Gerard at picking up dates

“And yelling at me is the last thing you remember?” Mikey’s voice was coming out of the phone, which was cradled against Gerard’s ear. He was slumped up against the diner’s tile wall, head pounding, fighting off Frank who was making a desperate bid to talk to Mikey.

“Uhuhmgrl,” Gerard managed over Frank shoving his hand over Gerard’s face. This was the worst hangover of his life, and Frank was Not Helping. And Gerard was counting the morning after he’d done shots of tequila and whiskey at the same time.

“Okay. And Frank is there with you?”

Mikey’s voice was tinny and horrible. “And pancakes,” Gerard said, eyeing the table they’d abandoned in favour of Phone and Answers.

“And _Bob_ ,” Bob said.

Oh, right. Bob was there, too. Bob had definitely been there when Gerard had woken up in the parking lot of the diner in the middle of jesusfuck nowhere. And he was still there, in the hallway leading to the bathrooms, huddled around the payphone that they’d dragged themselves to like disgruntled hungover things after shoving half of breakfast into their faces. “And Bob,” Gerard added.

“Yeah, I can hear him,” Mikey grumbled.

“Stop shouting,” Frank groaned.

“Frank’s here,” Gerard said, in case Mikey hadn’t heard.

“And Bob,” Bob said.

“Yes, Bob is here,” Gerard said. “He’s helping the wall hold me up.”

“I’m here too,” Frank muttered, like he was disgusted that Gerard was enough of a distressed damsel to require holding.

“Also,” Gerard said, nodding at Frank, so he felt included, “Frank is here.”

“I’m hanging up,” Mikey said and hung up.

“What a bitch,” Bob said.

“Don’t say ‘bitch;’ it’s misogynistic,” Frank grumbled.

Gerard beamed. And then he winced. “Ow. What the hell happened to us?”

“That’s why we called Mikey,” Frank said. “To ask.”

“Oh right,” Gerard said and dialed his asshole little brother again. “Mikey, you hung up.”

“I’ve been told not to call you a bitch,” Bob said. He looked haggard. Like a haggard viking. Like a really hungover viking might have looked in days of yore.

“Has anyone ever told you that it looks like you might have—”

“Viking blood,” Bob interrupted Gerard. “A billion times, yes. All of them from you. And once from Frank.”

Gerard looked to his side, where Frank was sitting. Frank was _seventeen_. Also, Frank was wearing lipstick?

“So, what do you guys want to know?” Mikey’s tinny voice asked.

“What the hell happened!” Frank said.

“Lipstick,” Gerard said.

“Right,” Frank said. “I got that one. That was because you wandered into Gabe’s mom’s room and asked if someone had moved the things in your boudoir. Then Vicky, she was holding you up, she said, no, that was Gabe’s mom’s stuff, and you said what a pretty colour it was, and then she put lipstick on you.”

“Me,” Gerard said, pointing to himself in case there was any doubt.

“That is accurate,” Mikey confirmed.

“Wait, but,” Gerard said, “I’m asking about the lipstick on Frank’s mouth.”

“Has nobody had the Talk with him yet?” Bob asked. “Gerard, when a boy likes another boy very much, sometimes he puts his mouth on the other boy’s mouth—”

“A lot,” Frank added.

“In the back seat of their kind little brother’s car,” Mikey grumbled. “All over it. Like bunnies. Bunnies who make out in the back of their brother’s car.”

Gerard stared at Frank’s mouth a bit more and then he wiped his own on a napkin which, yep, turned up red. “Oh.”

Mikey mumbled, “Did he just realize that he spent last night making out with his jailbait sidekick?”

Gerard furrowed his brow and then deeply regretted it. “Dude, what did you just say?”

“ _Nothing_ ,” Mikey snapped. “I said nothing.”

Gerard paused, shushed Frank and Bob, and then listened. There was more muttering and then the sounds of a struggle. Gerard glared at the phone. “Are you alone, Mikey?”

“Yes!” Mikey half shouted from at least a foot from his cell phone. “Oh, god, yes! So alone! So— Mmmflrgl.” 

A few moments of static followed and then the voice that Gerard recognized as belonging to the person who had macked rather spectacularly on his brother the night before could be heard saying very clearly, “Hey, asshole, it’s eight in the fucking morning.”

Gerard narrowed his eyes. “I knew it! Tell Mikey to come pick us the fuck up and leave your sad ass alone in bed.” Gerard pondered adding a raspberry.

“No fucking way,” said the Macker. “I’m telling him you guys have money for a taxi.”

“You fucking motherfucker, I’m going to end you, oh my god—”

“I’m hanging up now.”

“No, don’t do that!” Frank shrieked into Gerard’s ear. “Don’t punish us for Gee’s fuck-ups!”

There was a lurking silence on the other side of the phone. “What’s the name of the place?”

Gerard looked at Frank. Frank looked at Gerard. No one looked at Bob. Bob said, “Wendy’s Pie Shack.”

“We’ll be there in an hour. Don’t get kicked out,” the Macker said.

“An hour?”

“A man can do many things in an hour,” the Macker said wisely.

“Don’t you dare fuck my brother and then come pick me up.”

“Kisses!” the Macker said, adding several ‘mwah-mwah’s into the phone before hanging up.

“I hate him,” Gerard said to no one in particular, pressing his cheek against the cold and unfeeling tile wall, as Bob snickered in the background.

Frank slid an arm around his back. “Let’s go eat some pancakes, okay? And then we can figure out what we remember of last night.” Gerard nodded miserably and the three of the trooped back to the table.

**THE NIGHT BEFORE**

“Shouldn’t have brought me then, should you?” Gerard downed his glass of beer. “Okay! Here I go!”

“No, stop—!” Frank exclaimed, but Gerard had already toppled off his stool and was staggering towards the guy in the blue shirt. The man’s voice became peripheral noise, and Gerard barely paid attention to his: “You can’t! Fuck. Oh.... Fuck my life. _Seriously_.”

Him and Frank barely ever got serious one-on-one time, and Gerard was _determined_ to be the best wing man ever. Frank didn’t ever talk to strangers and then get to have sex. Granted, he was only seventeen, but _still_. If Gerard could figure out what kind of guy Frank liked, he was going to make sure they got together and made beautiful babies. Wait.

Gerard gathered up his courage and his sanity. He didn’t even need another glass of beer (or maybe some vodka with a twist) to get his courage up enough to talk to Blue Shirt. Maybe.

The guy pretty much looked like a viking, and Gerard wasn’t going to mention it because the guy probably knew he looked like a Norse virtuoso, right, but when he stumbled up to him, eyes wide and earnest, the first words out of his mouth were, “Hi, Thor! I’m Loki,” and he stuck out his hand.

“Uh,” Blue Shirt said. “Thanks?”

“No, I mean,” Gerard said, holding his hands up like he was trying to say, _I come in peace, I am not an alien in a human meat suit disguise. Seriously._ “I’m sorry. I didn’t. I wasn’t going to say anything. You probably know how blond and tall and, uh, built you are. It’s pretty intense, by the way, in case you didn’t.”

“Uh, yeah,” Blue Shirt said. He was starting to frown. Ohshitohshit, this wasn’t going well.

“Numbers!” Gerard blurted out, in an attempt to save face. He was about to add the part where _My friend wants your phone number, he’s been staring at you all night, he’s really cute and he’d probably make a great boyfriend if you were into that kind of thing,_ when his mouth (treacherous leech that it was) ran off again. “You look like a viking and it is enchanting. I can’t stop staring. Your hair doesn’t blind people with its shiny voluptuousness, does it? I think it might! You should have that looked at.”

Blue Shirt looked distinctly uncomfortable. At least Gerard hadn’t gotten so desperate to save the conversation that he was getting handsy. But he could feel that it was about to happen, so he cleared his throat. “My friend wants your phone number! Not me! He’s much less creepy, so that’s probably good.”

“Uh huh,” Blue Shirt said. “Look, guy. You’re pretty wasted. Maybe you should sit down. —Somewhere far away from me.”

“But my friend’s really cute,” Gerard said. “You’d like him.”

“Him?” Blue Shirt asked, eyebrows shooting up so fast they almost disappeared into his hairline.

Oh shit.

“Oh, shit,” Gerard said. “We were too busy staring at your awesome viking beard to figure out that you weren’t gay. You aren’t giving off vibes! I mean, just in case you were wondering! Not that gay vibes are a thing. Well, they probably are. I mean, your shirt’s pretty tight; maybe that’s why he thought that. Um. His face is kind of girly if you’re into that kind of thing, I guess. Girls, I mean.”

Mikey appeared at his side just as Gerard was about to add something about Frank’s hair being truly luxurious and definitely well-shampooed. “Hey, Bob,” he said.

Blue Shirt’s face relaxed. “Mikeyway,” he said.

“This is my brother,” Mikey said, pointing to Gerard. “He’s drunk.”

“Oh,” Bob said, nodding like that explained _everything_ , which, fuck Mikey right to hell. His eyes were all tinged with red like he was on his fifth Vodka & Unidentified Mixer, and he’d probably been smoking pot outside with the shaggy band boys, and. Fuck Mikey right to hell.

“You’re drunk, too,” Gerard said.

“His friend doesn’t need your number,” Mikey said, and made a face.

Bob nodded again, more vehemently. He might even have been smirking a little bit.

Fuck everyone.

“Stop making that face or I’m telling Mom,” Gerard said.

Mikey made a different face.

“I’m telling,” Gerard announced.

“Go back to Frank,” Mikey said.

“Frank wants to kiss Bob,” Gerard said matter-of-factly.

“No he doesn’t,” Mikey said. “C’mon. Bye, Bob. Nice seeing you. Sorry about my brother.”

“Yeah,” Bob said, waving. “Hey, good luck, Gerard. With your... friend.”

“Huh?” Gerard said. He didn’t understand. Luck was good to have though. “Thanks, I guess.” He turned to Mikey, who was apparently propping him up. “Your friends are weird, Mikes.”

“Don’t tell Mom, hey?” Mikey said. It wasn’t a question. It didn’t have to be.

“Yeah,” Gerard. “I wouldn’t. Hey, what did Bob mean, good luck?”

“Nothing,” Mikey said.

When Mikey said that, it always meant something was up.

“You’ll tell me tomorrow, right,” Gerard asked. Frank seemed to be gone from the table they’d been sitting at. “When I’m sober.”

“Sure, Gee,” Mikey said.

“Frank’s gone,” Gerard said.

“I know, Gee,” Mikey said.

“Who’s driving us home?”

“My friend,” Mikey said. “He’s Pete’s friend. He’s straight edge. He didn’t even want to come in the bar.”

“So long as he’s good,” Gerard said, yawning. “You coming?”

“Someone’s gotta sneak you in to the basement,” Mikey said. He gave an almost imperceptible nod, although somewhere in the depths of his booze-brain Gerard suspected it might be imperceptible to him because he was not really doing so hot on the room-not-spinning front, so noticing small motions like his brother flagging down their ride was considerably more challenging than usual.

“Yeah, yeah,” Gerard muttered.

“Don’t throw up in Andy’s car, okay,” Mikey said, grabbing his shoulder.

“Yeah, yeah.” Gerard batted his hands away.

Mikey hissed, “And seriously, don’t tell Mom,” as a scrawny, earnest-looking guy sidled up to them.

“Wouldn’t.”

“Good.”

“Good.”

Scrawny-Earnest-Andy glanced at Gerard and gave Mikey a Look. Gerard huffed. “Dude, I’m right here.”

“Uh,” Andy said. Mikey shrugged generously. “Yeah, I noticed, pal.”

“Don’t ‘dude’ me. That’s my baby brother.” He pointed at Andy and, having misjudged the distance, ended up poking him in the chest. Seriously, assholes like this guy shouldn’t be ogling Mikey while Gerard was right here. One, _gross_ (it’s Mikey! He’s, like, twelve years old!) and, two, Gerard. Right here.

“Yeah, I know,” Andy said.

Gerard, surly and feeling his drunk-sass welling up, said, “Well, Captain Obvious of the HMS Hemp, stop fucking hitting on my fucking brother.”

“ _Gerard_.” It was Mikey’s you-are-embarrassing-me-you-fucker voice, but Gerard was well past caring. Scrawny-Earnest-Andy was probably a shitty lay anyway.

Not that Mikey went around having sex with strange men. That was clearly not happening. No. Gerard blinked. Right. Things. Yes. “Where the fuck is Frank?” He turned around, searching, his vision reeling.

Behind him, he heard Scrawny-Earnest-Andy say, “Does he think we’re fucking?”, and Mikey say, “Ignore him. Just ignore him,” and Scrawny-Earnest-Andy reply, “Pete so owes me one after this.”

Gerard wondered if friends of Pete were anything like friends of Dorothy. Very possibly. He pushed past a pink-haired chick who shouted something rude at him (he gave her a very gentlemanly raspberry in reply) and then he spotted him. “Frank!” He waved. Frank did not turn around. “Fraaaank.” He lumbered up to Frank who was chatting with Pepper Potts and Definitely-Not-Tony-Stark. He grabbed Frank’s shoulder. “Asshole, we need to gooo.”

Frank turned around, or as it turned out, not-Frank turned around. “Hey, guy, fuck off. I’m not your friend.”

Gerard narrowed his eyes. “You’re not Frank.”

“No, I’m fucking not.”

“Why the hell are you pretending to be Frank?” Gerard half-shouted. He shook the guy a little to get the message across. Impersonating Frank was no laughing matter.

“Fuck off.” Not-Frank shoved Gerard back. “I’m not Frank.”

Gerard swung and, aiming for his nose, managed to hit the guy on his left cheek. “I know you’re not Frank,” Gerard said. “Asshole.” He turned, leaving, and the guy grabbed onto his arm and wrenched him around, slugging him hard. “Shit.”

“Are you fucking serious?” said the most fearsome Mikey voice of all: the I-am-so-telling-Mom voice.

Gerard turned on him. “You are so not telling Mom.”

“I so am. Come with me. You’re getting in the fucking car.”

“No! I lost Frank.”

“Frank can find his own way home. He’s probably not half as drunk as you are, you stupid fucker.” He grabbed Gerard’s arm, evidently preparing to frogmarch him out. Mikey turned to Not-Frank. “Look, I’m sorry about my idiot brother. He drinks too much.”

“No kidding.”

“ _Mikey_ ,” he whined. “Don’t side with Not-Frank!”

“We are leaving,” Mikey said. They left. From somewhere, Scrawny-Earnest-Andy drove up in his doinky car and stopped in front of them, rolling down the front passenger window. “He hit someone,” Mikey told him, leaning in.

Gerard huffed, crossing his arms over his chest and looking determinedly into the middle distance toward a group of smokers hunched together. He squinted, trying to get the street to stay straight for a moment. “Mikey, I found Frank!” he exclaimed.

“Huh?”

“He was lost and now he is found,” Gerard explained. He waved. This time, Frank waved back. Gerard shouted his name at him until he lurked over, leaving the rest of the smokers snickering behind him.

“Frank!” Gerard said, sliding an arm around Frank’s shoulders for balance. “I found you.”

Frank sniffed.

“ _I found you_ ,” Gerard said, trying to insinuate that perhaps thanks were in order.

“You’re a cock,” Frank muttered, ducking his head down like he was embarrassed. Okay, no gratitude, then. Fine. Gerard was an unsung hero.

“Wheeeezy, I found Frank. He’s coming home with us tonight.”

“No,” Mikey said in a this-is-not-funny-you-are-not-funny-go-fuck-off-and-die voice. “I think Frank wants to go back to his own place.”

“Wheezy.” He made a sad face, mugging at Mikey with a general sad aura of sadness and sad.

Mikey sighed. “Whatever, fuckhead.” He shoved Gerard into the backseat of Andy’s cramped sedan (nice car, asshole) like he was getting arrested. He did not, however, stop Gerard from hitting his head on the top of the car the way they did in all the cop shows.

“Ow!”

“Andy, you can take it from here, right?” Mikey snapped as Frank sidled in next to Gerard.

“Sure thing, boss,” Scrawny-Earnest-Andy muttered, sounding more sarcastic than Gerard was comfortable with from some asshole who had been hitting on his brother.

“Be good to him, douchebag,” Gerard said, leaning forward and poking Andy in the shoulder.

“Good,” Mikey said and slammed the door shut.

“Are you leaving me with him?” Gerard shouted.

Mikey shrugged.

“Bastard,” he called back as they drove off.

“So where are we going?” Andy asked the car at large.

Frank looked at Gerard. Gerard looked at Frank. When they got to a stop light, Andy craned his neck around and also looked at Gerard. Gerard felt, over all, pretty fucking looked at. Like a penguin. Or an ocelot. Or a spectacled bear.

Gerard shrugged. That apparently only worked for Mikey, though, because Frank said, “What’s your address, dude?”

Gerard said, “Um. You know. Something something drive. Somewhere. You’ve been there.”

“Yeah, but I can’t fucking give _directions_ there.”

“Fraaank, you’ve been there loads of times. You telling me you don’t know where I live?”

“Nah, I just don’t know where we _are_.”

“Oh,” said Gerard, a new thought dawning on him. “Neither do I.” He was drunk, but he wasn’t _that_ drunk, but Frank and Scrawny-Earnest-Andy didn’t know he wasn’t that drunk, so he might’ve _been_ that drunk.

Or maybe he was really.

Nah.

“Left the club,” Frank said helpfully.

“Somewhere between my house and the club, then. Okay.” Gerard paused. “Andy, you’ve been to my house, haven’t you?”

“No.”

“Huh.”

“Call Mikey,” Frank piped up.

“Noooo. No. Don’t. Take us to your place.” Gerard kneed the back of Andy’s seat.

Scrawny-Earnest-Andy said something that Gerard did not understand. “Yes,” Gerard said, hoping that was the right answer. “Oh, Frank, I didn’t get you Blue Shirt’s phone number. But his name’s Bob, if that helps. Also, he’s straight.”

Frank turned towards the window.

Andy cleared his throat. “I, uh. I still need to know where you’re going. Frank, can I take him to your place?”

Frank started to say something, but Gerard interrupted, “We’re going to your place. Have a man to man talk.” Gerard squinted. “About my brother.” He stared at the back of Andy’s head and tried to burn through the back of it with his eyes.

“Gee, Gee, Gee,” Frank was saying when Gerard snapped to. They seemed to be driving to... a secluded location. (The Andy pad, perhaps?) The streets were dark (because it was night time, not because this was a noir film, Gerard reminded himself, although he could be into being in one of those). He didn’t recognize _any_ of the landmarks. “We’re here.”

“What? Where are we?”

Frank shrugged. Asshole.

“Are we going to die?” Gerard asked.

“I hope not,” Frank said. “We’re going to a party that Mikey told Andy about.”

Gerard stared at Frank and then at the house they’d apparently pulled up in front of. It wobbled ominously. He gripped the car door and shut his eyes. Even the back of his eyelids swam. “Uh,” he said. “I might throw up.”

“Out!” Andy said. “Get out right now! No vomiting on the carpet!”

Gerard stumbled out when Frank pushed him, and he made it two steps before he was emptying the contents of his stomach into the first bush he saw. Frank was at his side, murmuring something soft and soothing, and Gerard might have got a bit of vomit on his shirt, too. He checked, when he was done and his head was spinning, and, yep.

“You threw up on my shirt,” Frank said.

“Andy took us to the ass end of Nowheresville, and now we’re stranded,” Gerard said, commenting on their general situation more than making excuses.

“Huh?” Frank asked, pulling his shirt off over his head. He looked around maybe for a washing machine, but eventually, he just shrugged and threw it in the bush with Gerard’s vomit.

Gerard took his shirt off, too, for solidarity. These were the things friends did for each other. He wiped his face with it first. It was just a plain black one that he’d stolen from Mikey anyway, so he didn’t really care about it. What he did care about was Frank looking at the ground instead of at Gerard’s face, which, hello, rude. He slung an arm around Frank’s shoulders.

“So, uh,” Gerard said. “We’re stranded.”

“Are you two done having your Gilmore Girls moment?” Andy said from behind them on the sidewalk.

Gerard turned on him. “Frank just lost his shirt, and I am comforting him.”

“Okay,” Frank said, patting Gerard’s arm and pushing him off. He said to Andy, “Can I borrow a shirt?”

“Why would I carry an extra shirt with me?”

“I thought you lived here,” Frank said.

“No, your friend said I should take you home with me, but that sure as fuck isn’t happening.”

“Why not?” Gerard said belligerently. A car pulled up beside them, and Gerard grabbed Frank’s arm, yanking him toward the vomit-laden bushes. “Watch out, it might be a killer,” Gerard whispered.

A very tall, very Spanish man climbed out of the car, a large grin on his face. The evening was getting more interesting by the second. “Franklin,” he said, his voice deep. “You know I love it when you bring shirtless boys onto my property late at night.”

Frank held up a finger. “I have a theory that this is Gabe’s house.”

“ _Gabriel_ ,” the Spanish man said to Gerard, bowing flamboyantly. “ _Tu piel es como el color de la luna, mi amor._ ”

Gerard stared. He suspected this was how Mikey felt all the time.

“Because that’s Gabe,” Frank said, by way of explanation. “Gabe, we need shirts.”

“No, just you, Iero,” Gabe said, practically purring as he came closer to them.

“Frank, I don’t like him,” Gerard said. “He’s too tall; I don’t trust him.”

“Gabe, we’re wasted. You wouldn’t take advantage of us, would you?” Frank asked.

Gabe’s mouth curled in a smirk. “Don’t underestimate me, _muchacho_. I’ll give you shirts if your friend gives me a kiss.” Note to self: Gabe was definitely a friend of Pete. At least on a metaphorical level.

“I mostly like girls,” Gerard said. “I feel it’s fair to warn you.”

“Mostly?” Frank squeaked.

Around this time, Gerard suddenly found himself with 175 pounds of Tall-Dark-and-Gabe wrapped around him. “Would this be a bad time to mention—” And then Tall-Dark-and-Gabe’s mouth was clamped firmly over Gerard’s before Gerard could mention the throwing up he’d done earlier. He decided that, okay, this would be the one and only act of prostitution for the night and that he should make it a nice and wet one.

Tall-Dark-and-Gabe yanked away from him. “Your friend’s mouth tastes like vomit, Iero.”

“Eeurghk,” said the Iero in question.

Gerard smiled sunnily up at Gabe. “Shirts now?”

Gabe shrugged. “If you insist.”

“At least one for my pint-sized pal.”

“Hey!” Frank said. “I’m right here.”

“Do you want a shirt, or do you just want me to make out with strangers?” Frank hesitated, and Gerard scowled. “Frank, there’s a correct answer to that question.”

Frank, with typical wily Frank wiliness and also wiles, staged a distraction. “Gabe! Is there a party at your house?” He knew how to appeal to Gerard’s love of free booze and crowds. What a fucker.

“Oh,” Gabe said suavely. “Probably.”

“You monster,” Gerard hissed at Frank. To Gabe, “Can we come?”

Gabe looked him up and down. And up again. “I think I’d better find you two shirts.” His eyes locked somewhere between Gerard’s collar bone and the top of his boxers, and if he were more sober, he would have convincingly triangulated Gabe’s gaze to somewhere fairly discomforting because Gerard was not entirely comfortable as anyone’s sex object, even if he had an extraordinary talent for it.

“No shirt, no service,” Gerard snapped.

“Yes shirt, yes service?”

“Give me a shirt, and you’ll fucking find out, won’t you?” and Gabe’s eyes looked a little glazed for a moment as he failed to process that Gerard was planning to punch him in the fucking face, not suck him off. The night was still young, and Gerard was still soberish. Well. At least one of these statements was factually true.

Gerard was mentally determining that “soberish” was give or take three shades of drunk from sober (because his usual definition of “within fifteen minutes” was really pretty fucking useless here) when they walked into the house, which seemed to stage an impromptu mosh pit in the entryway when Gabe came in and simultaneously tried to punch them all in their collective face with the volume of the music pumping through Gabe’s exquisite sound system (but that was how music was supposed to be played). They watched in awe as Gabe swept through the entryway and into the living room as if there weren’t a good fifteen people clustering around him.

“How does he do that?” Gerard furtively asked Frank.

Frank answered, “Magic. Charm. Or sobriety.”

Gerard said, “Like fuck it’s sobriety,” and then Gabe whisked them into the kitchen. It was small and cramped with red and white tile floors that were, by that point in the evening, slightly sticky to walk on. Gabe pushed past a few people lurking around a keg and bullied his way to the fridge. He produced three cans of Red Bull, and Frank’s eyes went very wide. Gerard patted him on the back in a show of solidarity. At _la casa de Saporta_ , you did as Gabe did. Gabe poured the cans into red Solo cups and then made Gerard get a grubby shot glass that had already seen a hell of a lot of drinks pass through it that night, so he could add two shots to each of the cups. He passed them out with silent solemnity to his appreciative (Gerard) and terrified but intrepid (Frank) audience. “Drink up, boys.”

Frank looked at Gerard. Gerard looked into his cup and chugged. He blinked. Shit. He steadied himself preemptively on the counter top. He glanced at Frank who was still studying his drink in pale-faced stupefaction. “Bottoms up, Frankie.”

Frank stared at him with pure and utter loathing before taking a long swig. Gabe slapped him on the back. Frank wiped his mouth off and made a face.

“This is gonna be an awesome party,” Gerard said. Frank looked seriously unconvinced.

Gabe slid his arms around each of them and steered them into the living room like a viciously hipster sheepherder with a pair of tragically goth sheep. Once they were fully emersed in the crush of people in the living room, Gabe shouted, “Hey, guys, who wants to lend their sweaty-ass t-shirt to Batman and the Boy Wonder?”

Frank and Gerard both said, “You’re Robin,” at the same time, but it did very little to save them. Within seconds, Gabe was fending off a cluster of men in tight striped t-shirts and v-neck sweaters (although not both at once, thank fucking god). Some kind, goat-bearded fuck stripped off his lumberjack-worthy plaid button-down, leaving himself in only a grungy white wife-beater, and offered it to Gerard. Faced with the daunting task of trying to put on a shirt while holding a partially (but not very) full Solo cup, Gerard carefully shrugged one arm on without spilling too much, successfully avoiding the goat guy’s attempts to hold it for him (dude looked like he might palm a roofie into Gerard’s drink) before giving up and just finishing the drink in one go, so he could safely hand over his empty cup and swing his second arm into the shirt. While Gerard was fending off the punk rock incarnation of Pan, a teeny blonde girl with a pixie cut and jeans tight enough to make Mikey jealous sidled up to Frank.

“Want my t-shirt?”

It was red with a cheesy vintage Coca Cola logo on it and most definitely a fitted cut because Gerard could tell quite easily that it was the only thing holding her boobs up because she wasn’t wearing a bra. Somewhere in the back of Gerard’s mind, Frank saying yes triggered a slowdown as if his brain were able to switch into slow motion at will. Girl in t-shirt. Girl with hands on hem of t-shirt. Girl pulling t-shirt over head. Slowly. Midriff exposed, chest exposed, boobs exposed. Critical mass of small but nice tits, round pink nipples, breasts generally perky, not fake-tanned but pale and a little freckly. Overall, yes, pretty good general chestal region. Met with his approval.

And Frank said, “Hey, can I touch them?”, and the chick must be pretty drunk because she replied, “Oh, sure. You’re gay, right?”, and Frank stared at her. She giggled. “I knew because of your boyfriend, stupid. You’re with Batman,” and she pointed at Gerard.

He watched the following thoughts cross Frank’s mind with the perfect clarity of drunken telepathy:

_I can’t believe she thinks I’m dating Gerard._

_Do Gerard and I look like we’re dating?_

_Maybe, it’s just Gabe’s stupid aura of probable homosexuality._

_She does have nice boobs. I should probably take this opportunity to touch them as revenge for her assuming I’m gay._

_Or maybe it’s because Gerard made out with Gabe to get me a shirt and just-made-out-with-a-man fumes are radiating from him._

_Like fuck fumes._

_I should probably let Gerard touch them, too. I owe him._

In the service of this last objective, Gerard sidled over, slid an arm around Frank’s waist, stole his drink, and said, “Go for it, sweety pop,” before taking a long and pointed swig of vodka-laden death-in-a-cup. Frank looked at Gerard. Frank looked at Pixie Chick’s boobs. Frank cupped one appreciatively for approximately 3.12 seconds before yanking his hand back and awkwardly pulling her too-small t-shirt over his head as an excuse. Gerard clucked his tongue. “Frank, you’ll give her low self-esteem,” Gerard scolded. He shoved Frank’s cup back into Frank’s hands, now virtually empty. Then, Gerard generously cupped her breasts, giving them a thorough grope, and said, “Don’t worry about him, honey. They’re very nice.”

Then, Gerard looked up from where his eyes were glued to Pixie Chick’s chest and met the incredulous stare of Blue Shirt. “Blue Shirt!” Gerard said.

Blue Shirt said, “What the fuck are you doing, Way?”

And Gerard said, “I am ensuring that this young lady has a bright and prosperous future by reassuring her about the supreme adequacy of her body.”

“The laying on of hands,” Frank groaned.

Blue Shirt said, “Take your hands off her tits. They’re not fucking handlebars on your fucking bike.”

“I have a car, dipshit.”

“Yeah, in your mom’s driveway.”

Gerard made a face at him that was not unlike a cranky Kermit the Frog. Blue Shirt raised an eyebrow and scowled like Miss Piggy. From the next moment onward, Gerard and Blue Shirt were fast friends, but first, Gerard did take his hands off Pixie Chick’s boobs. Beside him, Frank let out the breath he’d been holding. Gerard stuck out his right hand and offered it to Blue Shirt. Blue Shirt looked askance at it and then shook it anyway. He grimaced further at Gerard’s slightly sweaty hand.

“Sorry. Boob-hand.”

“You are a magnificent asshole.”

“Can I buy you a drink, sir?”

“The booze is already free.”

“All the better!”

They high-fived. “I’m Bob, by the way.”

“I remember,” Gerard said. “No, actually, I didn’t. I’m sorry. Gerard.”

“Yeah, I know.”

Gerard narrowed his eyes and examined the complex and layered expression that Bob was attempting to use to cover up a simple look of MIKEY TOLD ME SO MANY THINGS. Gerard was expert in reading expressions, though, which Mikey should have known. He shouldn’t have sent such a rookie agent into the field to deal with his badass older brother. (Gerard was so badass. Good grief.) Gerard was going to have to have a talk with Mikey about telling people things.

“Rumors of my greatness are greatly exaggerated.” Gerard paused, considered, and furrowed his brow. “Wait.”

“Excellency?” Frank supplied.

“Majesty,” Gerard tried.

“Fulsomeness,” Gabe bellowed from several feet away in the crowd.

“I have no idea what the fuck that means,” Gerard said.

“ ‘A lot’,” Frank said. “ ‘A lot _ness_ ’.”

Bob, interrupting their profligate squandering of perfectly good verbosity, said, “So I’m guessing that Gabe gave you one of his specials?”

“It was horrible,” Frank confirmed.

“I’m gonna get you guys a cup of something or other,” Gerard said.

“Awesome,” Bob said. “I am totally looking forward to that.”

“You fucker,” Frank called after him as he threaded through the crowd. He pursed his lips focusing on the crossing the room motion and not the boat-like sway-swell of the floor. He tracked down the tub of wap, drink of the stars (or at least the intending to be seriously intoxicated), and ladled generous amounts into three freshish Solo cups. He picked out a few strawberries for himself and some of the (previously) canned peaches for Frank. Then, he considered the momentous task of carrying three fairly full glasses across a crowded room without good balance for back-up.

Well, fuck.

Holding the three plastic cups pressed together like a bouquet, he scuttled across the kitchen and skirted around the living room, going through the den and into the hallway that led to the entryway. Gabe was greeting someone with his customary effusiveness and a cup of drink-and-die. As he cut through the entryway to go through the living room door closest to Frank and Bob, who he could see awkwardly making small chat, he caught sight of Gabe’s assaillee, Short Dark and Grungy, who was chatting with an unholy animation.

Gabe flagged him down. “Gerard! Get over here. You have to meet this guy. You’ll love him.” Gerard was not going to love him. Gerard was not going to love anyone right now because Gerard was clinging to three large Solo cups and trying to keep his balance at the same time.

“This is Gerard,” Gabe said, considerably more drunk than the last time Gerard had seen him. He wrapped a wandering hand around Gerard’s waist, efficiently manhandling him. “He made out with me in exchange for this shirt,” and he stuck his fingers under the hem of it.

“Seriously?” Short Dark and Grungy said.

“I did do that, yes,” Gerard said, slightly sheepish.

“Shit.” He stuck out his hand. “I’m Pete.”

“Um,” Gerard said.

“Let me take one of those for you,” Pete said, and he did. Gerard, who was not going to like Pete, suddenly liked Pete very much. He was suddenly and radiantly fond of the man. Yes, here was a man who knew when to offer to hold another man’s cups.

“Nice to finally meet you,” Gerard said.

Pete’s smile faltered. “What’ve you heard?”

“Not much. You know a lot of people.”

“That I do.”

They both fell silent for a moment, both trying to feel the other out, both knowing that something was fucking Up. Then, Gabe said, over-loud, “Wow, you could cut the sexual tension in here with a knife!”, and both of them began to laugh.

“No, Gabe,” Pete said, “that’s just regular tension, I think you’ll find.”

“All tension is sexual for Gabe,” Gerard said, and Pete laughed.

And then Mikey walked up behind him. Gerard gave him an awkward little wave and a lopsided brotherly grin, and Mikey gave him a look of blank horror. “Oh,” Mikey said. “Hi.” Then, the awkward silence thickened into something impenetrable and nasty. Pete looked between him and Mikey. Gerard watched the cogs turn in Pete’s head. His internal tennis match landed finally on Mikey, and something in Pete’s expression went sour.

“I can’t believe it took Gabe Saporta to introduce me to your brother, Mikey,” Pete said.

Mikey, choosing not to hear him, said to Gerard, “I thought I sent you home.”

“Frank and I couldn’t remember where we live,” Gerard said. He considered for a moment and then added, “You and me live, not me and Frank live. I don’t live with Frank. You know that.”

Mikey gave him the death glare that was reserved for moments of Total Displeasure. “Gerard.”

“Jesus, you don’t have to be such a dick about it, Mikes.” Gerard snatched the third cup back from fucking Pete Wentz (in his fucking douchebag hoodie). He locked eyes with him and said, “Be nice to my little brother.” Pete began to turn an unflattering shade of pink that clashed with his dumb pink t-shirt and had to look away, but Gerard could feel Mikey’s laser-edged gaze follow him all the way from the entryway until he melted into the crowded living room, staggering under the weight of his own towering lack of sobriety.

Spilling pretty decent amounts of wap onto Gabe’s wilting carpet, which sucked gently at his shoes, Gerard crossed to Frank and Bob who accepted their drinks with the joy of men who very badly needed something to do with their hands. Frank sipped, gagged, and then gulped some of it down under Gerard’s eagle eye. “Attaboy, Frank.”

Gerard glowered at his drink and sucked more of it down, wincing at the sweetness of canned fruit syrup. “You know Pete, right?

Bob nursed his cup, looking over Gerard’s shoulder at the party behind him with an intensity that bordered on nervousness. Even Frank noticed it. He and Gerard exchanged a Look. “You don’t have to stick with us,” Frank said kindly, and Gerard added, “We’re big boys.”

“No! It’s cool,” Bob said, eyes flicking over the crowd. “I’m good.” He took a gulp of his drink. 

Gerard did the same once he saw Frank drinking and apparently enjoying his now that the alcohol was probably drilling a hole through his taste buds. Fuck that, Gerard could be a young thing and drink sweet shit. He aimed for downing the contents of his cup, choked on a bit of raspberry, and leaned back against the wall in the coolest way he could. “So, cool party,” he said.

Bob’s eyes flickered to Gerard, and he snorted. “Sure,” he said. “I guess.”

“You’ve been to better?” Gerard asked.

Bob smiled into his cup as he took another gulp. “Last one I went to they had pin the tail on the donkey.”

Frank’s nose wrinkled. “Was it a party for twelve-year-olds?”

“Nah,” Bob said, shifting his stance. “Drunk grownups like some weird shit, little guy. You’ll learn.”

“Fuck you,” Frank said, with venom. “You’ve probably got viking blood in your family.”

“I said that earlier,” Gerard said, raising his eyebrows at Bob as though sharing a very fond inside joke between two old friends. “Remember? Viking.”

“Uh huh,” Bob said, and then Bob wasn’t paying attention to Gerard so much as he was staring at something behind Gerard.

Gerard watched as Frank too followed Bob’s gaze behind Gerard’s back, eyes bugging out in the way that only Frank-eyes could, and then Gerard knew. Something was up. Had been all evening. In the club with Mikey, in the car with Earnest Andy, now at the party with Bob.

“What?” Gerard asked.

Frank shook his head violently. “Nothing!” he said, downing his drink without taking his eyes off behind-Gerard.

Gerard looked at Bob, who seemed to be as nervous as Frank about whatever it was. “Guys, seriously, if it isn’t Mikey shooting up, I promise not to flip a table or anything.”

“Um,” Frank managed. Bob grabbed Gerard’s arm to keep him facing forward, and Frank made a noise like a cat going through a blender.

Okay. Mikey was shooting up behind him. Awesome. Gerard could deal with that. Gerard could deal with anything. Gerard could, and did, drink more. It burned down his throat with a slightly sickly fruitiness. Gerard turned around.

This, he realized, was a mistake.

Mikey was not shooting up.

Mikey was on a couch, more than casually involved with Pete-Wentz-from-earlier, who was most _definitely_ an (at least part-time) friend of Dorothy. And himself. Who Mikey was also apparently a friend of. Also, they were liplocked in a way that spoke of a familiarity that made Gerard’s skin crawl with Not Includedness because, seriously, who didn’t tell his super accepting, super awesome big brother about his boyfriend who, by the way, he had been seeing for at least— Gerard’s mental relationship calculator tallied based on level of leg entanglement, placement of hands, amount of tongue being slipped, casualness of contact, and level of embarrassing voyeurism.

Fuck-ass shit, Mikeyway, you bastard. At least two months.

Gerard, drink in hand, swaying as if in a light breeze, stared at Pete, who had been macking on Gerard’s brother. Pete-who-had-been-macking-on-Gerard’s-brother stared back. Frank glanced periodically between the two of them as if watching the world’s most frightening tennis match. Mikey looked at him imperiously, and Gerard was so not taking his shit today. He opened his mouth to provide an intelligent, witty burn of He Who Would Dare Mack On Gerard’s Baby Brother (Age 18), and Mikey gave Pete-the-Macker a sidelong glance that said, “Please don’t break up with me because I will so be on my knees for you tonight if you put up with my asshole alcoholic brother.”

And Gerard said instead, “Oh, my god, you are the man who stole my brother’s virginity.”

He watched Mikey’s face shatter into a million pieces of horror and anguish. Frank looked somewhere between appalled and viciously embarrassed. The Macker laughed. “Dude, I was way late for that.”

Shitty pun aside, Gerard turned on Mikey who was rapidly flushing a deep red. “Mikey.”

Mikey stared back, deer in headlights, unable to speak.

“Mikey. What the fuck is he talking about?”

But suddenly Gerard’s world was shifting on its axis, redistributing itself in a way that made horrible, obscene sense, because, oh, oh, god, he should have known, shouldn’t he? “Exactly how many people have you slept with?”

And Mikey bit his lip.

This was when Gerard shouted (and he was willing to admit that it wasn’t really okay later, but right then, he knew it was the Right Thing To Do), “Oh my god, you slut.”

Which was when Mikey threw his drink at him and snarled, “I’m sorry we aren’t all perfect cloistered nuns, Gerard!”, and stomped away.

The Macker capped this off with, “Nice,” and turned to go after him.

Gerard said, “Oh, we are so not done here,” and made to follow him, but Frank grabbed his sleeve and held him back.

“Dude,” Frank said, “what the fuck?”

“He’s my brother! Look, you’re an only child. What do you know?”

“That you were just a total asshole to Mikey.”

Gerard, dripping with what tasted like a screwdriver as he licked his upper lip clean, had to reluctantly agree. “You don’t understand,” he whined.

Frank looked like a lost puppy or a puppy whose parents were arguing or maybe a puppy behind a curtain of orange juice and vodka. “You called him a _slut_.”

Gerard took a moment to briefly calculate whether he had just been unreasonably assholish to Mikey. If Mikey had slept with as many people as his widening eyes had indicated, then Gerard was probably just doing his big-brotherly duty. “Yes,” he said. “I guess that was a bit mean.”

Frank rolled his eyes. “ ‘A bit’?” he said, making finger quotes like the self-righteous douche bag he was. “You’re a bitch, Gerard Way.”

“Don’t say bitch, it’s misogynistic,” Gerard said.

“But groping some girl’s breasts isn’t? How about this?” Frank asked as he held up both of his middle fingers. “Is _this_ misogynistic?” 

“Um.” Gerard thought about it. “No.”

“Good,” Frank muttered and flounced off. Frank was five. Frank was also an asshole. Frank was a five-year-old asshole. And that was, frankly, the worst kind.

“Well, shit,” Gerard said, to nobody in particular.

“Yeah, shit’s a good summary,” Bob said, from behind Gerard, which made Gerard jump like a little girl.

“Fuck,” Gerard muttered.

“Third drink?” Bob said, offering him one.

Gerard looked around him in the direction Mikey’s-disappearing-back had gone, in the direction five-year-old-asshole-Frank had gone, and in the direction of the-Macker-hunting-younger-brother-flesh had gone. “First, drinks. Then, we kill that son of a bitch who’s dating my brother.”

“Whatever, dude,” Bob said.

Gerard eyed the liquid and then gave in. “Bottom’s up.” He felt a maraschino cherry slither down his throat. Like a slap in the face, the alcohol whooped some clarity into him. “We should find Frank,” he said to Bob.

“Who?”

Gerard gestured at about Frank-height from the ground. “You know. Frank.”

“Oh,” Bob said, “your friend.”

Gerard nodded.

They stood in companionable silence until Bob cleared his throat. Gerard looked at him, trying to imply a question with his eyes. Bob shrugged. “You wanted to find your little friend?”

“Frank!” Gerard said. He nodded wisely. “He is missing again.”

“I think it’s more like he stomped off that way because you impugned the honour of his best friend,” Bob could have said, and Gerard would not have begrudged him the sentence, but instead, Bob shrugged again. Maybe shrugging was his ‘thing’. “He went that way.”

“Towards the den of thieves,” Gerard said, and tripped over nothing. “Watch out for the...the...watch your step,” he said, waggling his hand in the general vicinity of the air that had made him stumble as he headed in the direction that Bob’s finger had been pointing in.

“What are you gonna do when you find him?” Bob asked, as they made their way up onto the patio like an intrepid explorer and his viking companion.

“Are you trying to say,” Gerard said, trying not to run into the many brightly-clad women between him and a flight of stairs that he was just now determined to master, “that I am planning on killing my best friend?”

“Uh,” Bob said, momentarily lost behind a man wearing a sombrero. “No. Should I be worried ‘bout that?”

Gerard propped his hands on his hips and looked up the stairs.

This was his Everest.

He definitely needed more alcohol. That’s what climbers did, right? Probably not. But they also had rigs and shiny metal clips and helmets. He briefly tossed around the notion of actually putting forth effort to find liquor (or a helmet) before stair-climbing commenced, but then a girl wearing only a bra shambled past them, glasses in the air. “Shots!” she exclaimed, or really, what she said was, “Ploz”, but it was close enough (and probably drunk lady-zombie for “shots!” anyway), and Gerard accepted the two cups from her before she sat down and passed out.

“Yes!” he said to nobody in particular and downed them both.

“Not fair,” Bob complained.

“Vikings loot,” Gerard said. He waved a hand towards a slight boy who looked like he might fit in better at a circus than at a house party. “So, go. Loot. Reap... spoils. Et cetera.” Had that been Jack Daniels? It tasted like Jack. It had burned like Jack.

Bob nodded fervently, or really, he just sort of blinked, but Gerard got the feeling like the two were one and the same. “I will just... stairs,” Gerard said, gesturing descriptively. “You know.”

Gerard had conquered three of the stairs (such a victory demanded more booze) when Bob returned, beers in hand. “Viking Bob,” Gerard said, eyes on the prize. “I love your soul.”

“I got beer,” Bob said.

“Your eyes are an ice queen not unlike those that first looked upon the unsullied Americas,” Gerard said, as the world spun, not unlike Leif Erikson’s after the first twelve pints. “We should find Frank on the ground floor,” he suggested, steadying himself on the railing. He fell into Bob’s waiting arms, and the two of them shambled into what looked and smelled like a master bedroom.

Gerard squinted. They were in a house. Master bedroom. Parents? Hmm. He plonked himself down at an ornate makeup counter to further his deductions. He eyed the contents of the bedazzled cabinet and sniffed. “Has someone moved the things in my boudoir?” he asked, feeling as though his tongue were heavier than an anvil. “I told Mikey not to borrow my eyeliner.”

“He really _is_ wasted,” a girl’s voice said.

“I’m surprised he can still say boud-uh... boud...eh...bou...the thing he said,” Bob said.

Bob was here, good. That meant beer was here as well. Gerard turned part of the way to the side and eyed the girl whose hand was apparently keeping him upright. “Victoria,” he said.

“Gerard,” Vicky said.

“Boudoir,” Gerard said. “It comes from the French. Means ‘to sulk’.”

“You’re very drunk,” Vicky said.

“He’s righ’,” Bob grumbled.

“My good friend here has absconded with all the beer in the world. Stole it from the English.” Gerard sighed. “Ooh, lipstick.”

“Gerard, sweetie,” Vicky said. Vicky knew Gabe, who knew Mikey, who had recently had his tongue on Pete Wentz’s tonsils. “This is Gabe’s mom’s stuff.”

“A woman should have her own place,” Gerard mumbled. “ ‘s only fair. Pretty colours, too.” He looked at her and made eye contact and said with grave seriousness, “A room of one’s own.”

“You want some?” Vicky asked.

Gerard shrugged. “Beer first. Wouldn’t want to smudge it.”

“How many drinks has he had?” Vicky mouthed at Bob.

Bob snickered into the open mouth of _his_ bottle. “Hun’erd.”

“Saw that!” Gerard said, pointing at Vicky. “And I heard that, too, Bob.”

There was a bottle on the counter in under a minute, which probably meant that it had come from the heavens or at least Bob’s viking hoard. Gerard slurped it with gusto and then turned to Vicky who, now that he thought of it, kind of reminded him of a lioness about to pounce.

Uh oh.

Like all children who watched the Discovery Channel at a young and impressionable age, Gerard knew that lionesses did the hunting and lions did the brooding. “Done with that?” Vicky asked.

Gerard pouted. Vicky apparently misinterpreted this because she swooped in with the tube of lipstick and managed to get his lips covered with record accuracy considering his gentle unsteadiness and her own probably-more-than-tipsiness. Gerard looked in the mirror, smacked his lips, considered his reflection, crossed his eyes, and, making careful and painstaking eye contact with Bob in the mirror, said, “Do I look hot to you?”, and flipped his hair.

Bob stared. “Uh.”

Gerard smiled at his bad mirror self. “Just checking to make sure I still had it.” He moved to stand, sweeping imaginary skirts off the bench.

This was when the door flew open to the sound of a very high-pitched girlish giggling scream and a small compact body that Gerard knew from wrestling fights of yore hurled itself onto the four poster bed and shrieked for mercy. Frank was followed in by Gerard’s favorite gangly teen who was giving a barbaric yawp to make Whitman proud. Gerard managed to make out, “I am going to kill you, you motherfucker!”, among Mikey’s various warcries as he landed an Olympic-level leap onto the bed and began to tickle Frank pitilessly.

Naturally, Pete-the-Macker followed them in at a spirited jog, muttering, “Ohgodohgodohgod,” like some sort of sick, panic-inducing mantra. He looked from Gerard wearing lipstick to Mikey torturing Frank on the bed. He looked back to Gerard. “Dude, are you wearing lipstick?”

Mikey froze on the bed, halfway through trying to brain Frank with a throw pillow. Mikey’s eyes narrowed in the look that meant death to any who dared cross him (or his enormous beloved lunk of a big brother). “Pete.”

“Well, it’s just not fair if it’s his _natural_ colour,” Pete-the-Macker grumbled, toeing the carpet.

Mikey got this sappy look on his face that made Gerard want to punch everything in sight. “Yes, it’s lipstick,” Gerard snapped. “What about it?”

Pete shrugged, helplessly pinned down by fierce Mikey-glee. “I mean, I was going to have to start thinking about my Way brother choices, you know? Those lips—”

Mikey’s expression said to stage a distraction before they had to kill his attractive, very willing, very (no, shut up, shut up, Mikey-expression) boyfriend for finishing his sentence.

“—were made—”

Gerard tried to communicate through shrugging that he was too drunk to come up with a good plan.

“—for sucking—”

Mikey pressed his hands over his eyes. Gerard seized the moment, launched himself across the room, screaming a battle cry of “I find you attractive and intelligent!”, and tackled Frank to the bed under a fierce rain of fairly noninvasive affection.

“What the fuck just happened?” Pete finished.

Gerard sat up and high-fived Mikey. He did not, however, give up his Frank-entrapping straddle. Frank waved his arms weakly like a sad sea anemone. Gerard patted him on the head. Bob clawed at his face.

All was well in the world.

Mikey sat back on his haunches and said, “I should take you home.”

Gerard wailed no and beat his fists against the air in a less-than-dignified fashion, but did not put up overmuch fight. After all, he knew when he had the trump card, and the trump card was Mikey’s self-undermining desire to get in Pete-the-Macker’s pants. Gerard so had this.

Mikey’s Mikeyface was very insistent, so Gerard relented. “Okay,” he said. “Wait, I don’t have to get up to do that, do I?”

Mikey glared.

Gerard folded his arms across his chest. Frank was still wheezing-and-giggling weakly under him, and Gerard accidentally broke eye contact with Mikey to glance questioningly at Frank’s face. Frank smiled, mostly serenely. Gerard narrowed his eyes and bent over to sniff at Frank’s shirt. “You bastard!” he exclaimed. “You’re _high_ and you didn’t _share_.”

“Forgive me, madam,” Frank said, choking on his own laughter when Gerard attacked his sides. “Nononono,” he wheezed, curling around his own stomach. “Nonononono, Geeeeeee.”

Mikey cleared his throat.

Gerard paused in his tickle attack, his hands light on Frank’s stomach. “Yes, Michael?”

“Unless you want to fall asleep in Gabe’s mom’s bed and wake up with Gabe’s body parts in your mouth,” Mikey said, “You’ll get in my car.”

“Mikey, you’re _druuunk_ ,” Gerard whined.

“Am not.” Mikey sniffed and made his Truth face. It looked exactly like his other faces. Except that it didn’t. Gerard couldn’t explain the phenomenon.

“ _Fine_.” Gerard heaved out a sigh and stood to face his jailer. Mikey was slow in getting off the bed, but Gerard was pretty sure that was him being tuckered out from the attacking-Frank portion of the evening.

The walk to the car was a blur because Gerard was too busy staring at the back of Pete’s head with venom in his gaze to pay attention to such pedestrian activities as walking. He needed to get revenge on Mikey and on Macker Pete somehow.

Frank elbowed him on their way to the car. “What you thinkin?” he whispered.

Gerard pursed his lips and tried not to fall on his face when he was finally faced with the open back door of Mikey’s car. “Thinkin ‘bout people nailing my brother,” he grumbled.

“That’s twisted,” Bob commented.

“No, no, no,” Frank said, shaking his head. He squished himself up along Gerard’s side and leaned right past Gerard’s face to talk to Bob. “He means ‘cos. ‘Cos Pete’s right here.”

“Not ‘in the car’ here,” Bob said.

“Yeah huh, in the car here,” Frank huffed. His breath was displacing Gerard’s hair. Also he was really warm, like some kind of fucked up, human-sized furnace.

“No huh,” Bob said back. “They’re makin’ out outside the car.”

“Aw man,” Gerard whined, flopping back.

“Hey,” Frank said, from where he was about an inch away from Gerard’s face, even though Gerard was _clearly_ trying to _sulk_ , thank you very much. “I know what we could do, make ‘em mad.”

“Die of being grossed out?” Gerard asked. It was his only suggestion, and he wasn’t sure it was entirely feasible.

“No, uh,” Frank said, eyes locked on Gerard’s, though they kept flicking down like he maybe had some food stuck in his teeth. “Som’n’ else.”

“Okay, partygoers,” Pete crowed, practically bouncing into the passenger seat. “Let’s take you home. So I can go home. To bed. With Mikey,” he added, as though that wasn’t already abundantly clear.

“ _Pete_ ,” Mikey said, not turning away from the wheel. Gerard could still see the hickey blossoming like a disgusting night-blooming brother-besmirching fucked-up flower on Mikey’s neck.

The familiar rumbling of the old car starting up happened, and then they were driving, really going, and Pete and Mikey were definitely holding hands, which meant that Mikey only had one hand on the wheel, and even a drunk Gerard did not appreciate his life being put in danger for the sake of touchy-feeliness with the goddamn Macker. Gerard turned to Frank and muttered, “Your plan. Now.”

Frank didn’t say anything. He just threw himself at Gerard, mouth first. Luckily, Gerard’s muscle memory compensated for Gerard’s higher brain spheres attempting to melt into glue in one go, and he deftly caught Frank’s mouth-led touchdown on his own lipsticked lips. Frank, apparently not being one to pass up drunken make outs, slid his mouth open. Gerard stuck his tongue into it in a sexy, not-too-punch-flavored way and touched it to the tip of Frank’s tongue. Frank pumped a fist in the air, which Gerard suspected was an acknowledgement of seven well-earned points to Team Backseat. Haha, suck it, assholes up front. Their defenses were way weak if they’d let such an easy play go through.

Somewhere, in the background, Bob made a strangled noise.

Gerard batted at him with the hand that was not grabbing onto Frank’s grubby borrowed t-shirt and pulling him forcefully forward. Might the make out gods bless Pixie Chick and her impeccable fashion choices. Frank, who had previously been nominally in his own middle seat, slid onto Gerard’s lap and knocked his head back against the window. Gerard so did not give a fuck.

Mikey, however, barked out, “Hey, seatbelts!”

Gerard did his best to hit him without actually dislodging Frank, which resulted in them tumbling back onto Bob who did not look pleased. Gerard propped himself up on his elbows, digging into Bob’s lap and ignoring the hands batting him away and the cries of pain.

“Both of you in your own seats,” Mikey shouted, nearly swerving out of his lane in distracting and sending both Frank and Gerard flying into the back of driver’s seat. “Safety first, assholes!”

Gerard shouted, “Hypocrisy!,” and pointed indignantly at Mikey and Pete’s still-joined hands, although this might have had more to do with Mikey wanting to punch Gerard in the face for making out with their mutual friend, you traitorous unfilial bastard, and Pete wanting them to stay on the road than it had to do with Mikey and Pete’s True Mad Deep Love.

“Should we have sex on Bob’s lap?” Frank said.

“That’s it!” Pete shouted. “Pull this fucking car over.”

To Gerard’s eternal annoyance, Mikey did.

“Fucking stop it, would you?” Pete cried, as though a half second of making out was going to kill _anybody_. God.

“I think you’re overreacting,” Gerard said, glaring pointedly at Mister-I-Fucked-Your-Brother. “Also I think you’re disgusting.”

“Stop that,” Pete snapped, twisting around in his seat. “You’re a fucking irresponsible wreck and you’re going to get us killed. You hurt Bob, and you could’ve been killed not wearing seat belts, and for fuck’s sake, Mikey’s an _adult_. He doesn’t need you policing his life choices, thank you very fucking much.”

Gerard blinked at Mikey. Mikey looked kind of chagrined, like he didn’t really want to choose between Pete and Gerard. Only, it kind of looked like he was going to choose Pete. “You have got to be shitting me.”

“Gee, I—”

“You’re gonna pick him? I’m your flesh and blood!” Gerard didn’t even have to bring up all the times that he’d picked Mikey off the ground or up from school, or... or... Fucking flesh and _blood_ , man.

“You’re being a dick,” Pete informed him.

“I am gonna hit you so hard,” Gerard informed Pete ( _take that_ ). Only, when he tried to punch Pete, Frank (still in Gerard’s lap) got in the way. And then the seat got in the way. And then Mikey was saying, “Gerard,” in his No Shit voice and Gerard was Done. He was finished with this bullshit. He shoved the car door open and pulled Frank along with him onto the shoulder of the highway as Mikey rolled down his window to keep fucking shouting at Gerard, the bastard.

“Get out of the car, Bob,” Gerard said.

“You’re walking,” Mikey said through his open window, voice flat. “Are you fucking kidding me?”

Bob looked between the two of them and got the fuck out of the car as Gerard said, “We’re fucking walking, you goddamn _traitor_.”

Mikey said, “Night, Gee,” and rolled up the window, and Gerard watched as his brother drove off (actually fucking drove off, what the actual fuck) into the fucking maybe-nearly-sunrise, leaving behind a disgruntled and tall Bob and short and crashing Frank. Frank yawned.

“Well,” Gerard said. He was feeling like he might be at the end of his sanity rope, too. Perhaps, he could just lie down at the side of the highway and wait to expire.

“Oh, no, you don’t,” Bob said, answering Gerard out loud. “We’re getting the fuck out of here. I am not dying on some shitty Jersey highway. Let’s go.”

“Where are we going, Bob?” Gerard wailed. “We’re in the middle of nowhere.”

“Jesusfuck nowhere,” Frank mumbled.

“We’re gonna walk,” Bob said. He pointed at a set of train tracks that ran along side the highway for a while before curving off into the distance. “It’s gotta go somewhere,” he muttered and herded them off down the steep, weed-laden embankment, slipping and sliding and not quite falling on their faces.

Once they were on flat ground again, Frank stumbled along behind them and ended up having to lean on Gerard’s shoulder as they shambled along like something out of a bad zombie apocalypse. Gerard thought Frank might be falling asleep on his shoulder. Would Bob carry Frank if he fell?

“Nope,” Bob answered. Apparently, Gerard had been talking out loud this whole time. “Yes, you have. And I’m not carrying anyone anyfuckingwhere. Look, I see lights.”

“Where?” All Gerard could see was a bunch of trees. Also known as: the woods. “Bob, you aren’t taking us into the forest.”

“It’s a fucking grove. You won’t die,” Bob said. “Come on. Ten trees. I’m pretty sure there’s a store on the other side.”

“Werewolves, Bob!” Gerard whisper-shouted.

“Scaaary,” Frank mumbled. His mouth was caught in Gerard’s shirt, which was also where he was drooling.

“See? Frank is scared. You don’t want to scare poor Frank, do you?” Gerard said, doing his best to channel his mother telling off his younger self for trying to show an even younger Mikey his first horror movie. “Murderers, Bob!”

Bob looked at Frank who was leaned against Gerard, gnawing gently on his shirt with a placid bovine calm. Bob raised an eyebrow. Gerard shrugged. It was worth a try.

“Let’s go, ladies.”

“Bob,” Gerard said, pausing at the edge of the treacherous forest as he dragged Frank along.

“What now?” Bob asked.

“Nymphs, Bob.”

Bob rolled his eyes and walked off. “I promise that the sexy nymphs live somewhere fucking else.”

“But I want to get seduced by a wood nymph!” Gerard shouted back, not moving. Frank punched him for being too loud. Gerard ignored him. “Bob!” He waited for Bob to turn around. “Bob!” Bob kept going. “Bob?” Fuck. Gerard hurried after him at an approximate pace of three snails per hour because Bob was the only one who was definitely and for sure upright at this point and Gerard was dragging Frank, too. To Gerard’s relief (and the relief of his now-aching shoulder), the trees ended abruptly after about five paces, and Gerard blinked in surprise at the light coming from, yes, the neon sign of a diner.

“Huh,” Gerard said. He walked over to where Bob was standing at the front door, apparently waiting for them. When they joined him at the front door, Gerard realized that Bob wasn’t waiting.

The door was locked.

Gerard looked at Bob. Bob looked at the door. Frank drooled on Gerard’s shirt. “Okay, it might not be a twenty-four-hour diner,” Bob said. “But it’s something.”

“They’re open soon, right?” Gerard said, peering around Bob’s hulking mass.

Bob looked at the sign and looked at his watch. “It’s five in the fucking morning. What do you think?”

Gerard cocked his head. “In an hour?”

“Two,” Bob said flatly.

“Fuck.”

Frank wrapped his arms around Gerard’s chest and pillowed his head against it. “Can we go t’bed?”

Gerard patted his head. “Sure, Frankie.” Bob hunched his shoulders. “What!”

Bob looked surprised at the vehemence of Gerard’s reply, but then, most people didn’t have Way levels of body language interpretation abilities. “Uh. Well, someone needs to keep watch, so we don’t get murdered or run over or some shit.”

Gerard stared at him. “If we made it this far, the universe isn’t going to fucking off us in the fifth act.”

“Ugh, this isn’t a comic or some shit,” Bob grumbled, “you fucking crazy.”

“Fine,” Gerard said, propping up Frank against the side of the diner, so he wasn’t leaning his entire weight on Gerard. “You take first watch.”

Bob huffed. “I will,” he said. “But I ban you two from having sex next to me.”

Gerard considered. “Fair,” he said. “Give me a hand with Frank.” Together, they lugged the already-mostly-asleep Frank to the side of the parking lot where they collapsed, breathless, onto the grassy embankment. Gerard pointed at Bob and, eyes already drifting closed, said menacingly, “First watch.” And, to Bob’s credit, Gerard was pretty sure that he wasn’t actually unconscious any sooner than Gerard was himself.

**THE MORNING AFTER**

When Mikey’s junkmobile finally rolled up, they had just received their third round of appetizers and second set of shakes in an attempt to distract their waitress from noticing that they could not actually pay the bill because they had no money. Frank, who had been anxiously watching out the window since they’d sat back down (Gerard knew because he had been anxiously watching Frank anxiously watch), noticed first. He let out a shout of triumph and was about to go run out into the parking lot himself, but Bob stopped him with a single meaty viking arm against Frank’s delicate princess chest.

“I think Way has some explaining to do.”

“Dude,” Gerard said, blanching. Mikey was going to be far worse about this if Gerard didn’t have back up to witness it. Bob pointed with one threatening finger. Gerard went. Outside, the parking lot was dusty and Gerard kicked at the gravel, raising a little cloud around himself as he waited for Mikey to get out of the car. He stared at his toes as he listened to Mikey’s steps approach. Mikey stopped about five feet from him and, from the sound of the gravel shifting and the huffy psuedo-Mom sigh, put his hands on his hips. “ ‘M sorry,” Gerard muttered.

“What?”

“I’m sorry!” Gerard said. “For fuck’s sake, I’m a total idiot! And a complete shit and you are a pretty great younger brother, and yeah, um. I’m just going to go drown myself when I get home, but could possibly pick up my friends’ tab ‘cause we’ve kind of bought a lot of breakfast and we don’t have any money?”

Mikey tossed his eyes in his left hand and shrugged. He clomped past Gerard into the diner, and Gerard followed at a miserable shuffle. He watched Mikey go up to the counter and start taking out his rage on their poor innocent waitress. Gerard paused in front of the jukebox on his way in, fished around in his pants, and pulled out his last quarter from the grubbier regions of his pockets. He stuck into the machine and flipped through until he found a song that would do the trick. He picked it, glared at the machine, and dared it to ignore his desperate plea for assistance in his fraternal fuck-ups.

The jukebox clicked and whirred and grumbled, and then there was a pop in the speakers, and a tinny version of Elvis Presley’s opening “you ain’t nothin’ but a hound dog” slid into the air. Mikey, fingers still on his credit card on the Formica counter top, looked over his shoulder. Gerard had one chance at this.

Gerard jumped up on their still-crowded-with-food table and danced like no one was watching. It involved far more air guitar and silly arm flailing than his reputation could strictly sustain and a hell of a lot more kicking of baskets of french fries off tables than would keep Frank happy, but Gerard only had one brother, and pretty soon, that brother was also dancing like an idiot on the slippery tabletop as the restaurant employees shouted at them to get the fuck down because that was unsafe, you idiot turds.

“We are so getting banned from this place,” Gerard said. Mikey high-fived him.


End file.
